“The hilt glowed while it was in the serpent,” Chen Yong said.
Ai Ling felt the excitement drain from her limbs. “I tried to remove it to stab her again, but I couldn’t pull it out.”
“Lao Pan’s blessings seem to have taken,” Chen Yong said.
“And thank the heavens for that,” Li Rong added. “I will raise a cup of wine to you the first chance I get, wise seer.”
“You should thank Ai Ling first,” Chen Yong said.
Li Rong dropped to both knees, his hands outstretched toward her. “You saved my life, beautiful lady.”
Ai Ling collapsed near the campfire. “It was probably my fault anyway.” She rested her chin in her hand and stared into the flames.
“How so?” Li Rong asked.
“These demons seem drawn to me. There have been too many attacks—and I’m always the target.” She wanted to articulate her jumbled thoughts better, but her tongue would not cooperate.
“But she attacked me, not you.” Li Rong rose and sat down beside her. “I only jested when I blamed you earlier, Ai Ling.”
She tried to smile, but could not manage it. “What if . . . the demons are targeting my friends now?”
Chen Yong placed a light hand on her shoulder, nearly causing her to jump to her feet. “Rest, both of you. I’ll keep watch until light breaks.”
“You need sleep, too, old brother.” But Li Rong must have recognized the expression on his brother’s face, for he made no further protests and crawled under his blanket.
Ai Ling did the same. Sleep claimed her sooner than she expected, even as the image of the powerful serpent with a beautiful face haunted her.
11
Ai Ling woke before daybreak, stirred by violent dreams. It was as if she hadn’t slept at all. Feng was gone. Li Rong paced in frustration, pounding a hard fist in one hand. “I should have noticed last night. He must have been frightened out of his mind to bolt like that.”
“You wouldn’t have been able to find him in the dark. Let’s search now,” Chen Yong said.
The trio walked in wide circles, among the trees and along the path, calling Feng’s name, but to no avail. Li Rong’s shoulders sagged, his usual jaunty manner gone.
“He’s a smart beast. Someone will find and take care of him.” Chen Yong patted Li Rong on the back.
They ate their morning meal of salted pork, dried banana, and biscuits, accompanied by hot tea, in near silence.
Chen Yong pulled out Master Tan’s map, which he had tucked in his knapsack, one finger tracing lines across the parchment. “We’ll need to continue through the Sentinels’ Grove to Bai Yun Peak. It isn’t a tall peak, and it offers the shortest path to the Palace.”
Ai Ling’s legs quivered at the thought of climbing a mountain, no matter how small. Chen Yong rolled up the parchment and met her gaze. The skin under his eyes was dark, as if faintly smudged with soot. Weariness from travel had sharpened his features, making his amber eyes deeper set, his jaw line and cheekbones more defined. She blinked and half turned, embarrassed, when she realized she was staring. Ai Ling scuffled behind her companions, forcing her sore legs to move, dragging her blistered feet. The sun was merciless. Each step brought her closer to the Palace, she told herself, and Father. She refused to ask for rest, willing herself to keep up. Finally, Chen Yong turned and stopped. The air hung still around them. Even the birds were too hot to sing. She took the opportunity to gulp down a few mouthfuls of water from her flask—it too was warm. She made a face.
“Do you want to rest?” Chen Yong asked.
Ai Ling shook her head, but something in her expression betrayed her misery.
“We’re but a few hours walk from Sentinels’ Grove. It’ll be much cooler there,” Chen Yong said. “We can make camp early tonight.”
“Goddess of Mercy, what I wouldn’t pay for a sedan to tote me along this very moment,” Li Rong said, his face mottled from the heat. “With two women fanning me with palm leaves and another—”
“Save your breath, little brother,” Chen Yong said.
Ai Ling giggled and surprised herself, amazed she had the energy.
They walked on. Finally, she saw tall shapes ahead—bamboo towering above them. They followed the path as it narrowed into the grove. A hush, punctuated only by the occasional twitter of unseen birds, fell over them when they entered the forest.
Ai Ling approached a stalk as thick as a man’s calf. She ran her fingers over the ridges of its divided sections, the shell hard and smooth. Fading light filtered from above, illuminating the regal bamboo shafts that spanned as far as her eye could see. The air was cool, and she was grateful for the shade.
“This is magnificent,” Li Rong said, his face turned upward.
“Bamboo is one of my favorite subjects to paint,” Ai Ling said as they ventured deeper into the grove. A calm settled over her, a contentment to be traveling with good companions, a sense of freedom, a joy and wonder at being alive.
“You paint?” Chen Yong cocked his head, studying her with interest.
“It’s always been a part of my studies. Writing calligraphy is like painting in a way.”
“You can write?” Chen Yong asked, but it came forth more like a statement of amazement.
“My father was a top scholar in the Emperor’s court,” she said, her tone sharper than she intended. “And it may not be common, but yes, women, just like men, can learn to read and write if they are taught.”
Two spots of color flared on Chen Yong’s cheekbones. “I didn’t mean to offend, Ai Ling. I’m traditional in many respects, but I never did understand why girls weren’t taught the language like the boys. My sister was taught how to spar, but not how to read or write.”
“I don’t think An Xue would have been interested anyway,” Li Rong said, chuckling.
“I’d like to see your paintings someday.” Chen Yong moved to stand beside her. Her scalp tingled from his nearness. He turned toward her, lips curved in a smile, and Ai Ling forgave him everything—much to her own chagrin.
“Chen Yong enjoys painting as well,” Li Rong said.
“I’m not very good,” she said.
“Me neither.” Chen Yong tapped on one of the sturdy bamboo stalks with his knuckles. The sound came back solid and strong.
They made camp in a small clearing surrounded by the majestic sentinels. The forest was aptly named, as the bamboo did remind her of those standing guard. Ai Ling felt safe. They gathered broken stalks and twigs, and Chen Yong started a blaze with an oval striker and flint. They clustered around the fire and dined on dried beef, papaya, nuts, and salted biscuits. Ai Ling fished out a fresh apple and pear to share, slicing the fruits with her sharp dagger.
She could not help but think of where the blade had been previously, jutting out of the powerful neck of the serpent demon. The pungent scent of burned flesh returned to haunt her. She did not eat any of the fruit and passed it to the brothers to enjoy. Chen Yong brewed tea for them, always a comfort.
“So what’s so special about you, Ai Ling?” Li Rong asked, breaking the contented silence after their meal. He sat hunched by the fire, sharpening a long, thin bamboo stalk with a small knife, honing the end to a dangerous point.
“What do you mean?” She had been sketching the bamboo in her book and paused before speaking, annoyed by the interruption—perturbed by the question.
“We all saw the lunar telling sticks stand on end,” Li Rong said.
Chen Yong sat with his elbows propped easily on raised knees, gazing into the fire. Li Rong grinned and winked at her, continuing to whittle away.
“I think there may be a spirit that protects me . . . inside this pendant,” she said finally, raising her hand to the cool jade lying against her breast.
“I’ve seen her pendant glow,” Chen Yong said to Li Rong. “But why didn’t it work against the serpent demon, Ai Ling?” His face did not appear as taut as it had that morning; perhaps he too felt the peacefulness amid the bamboo.